


Getting Hot in Here

by Skylee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Costumes, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild D/s, Spanking, Strippers & Strip Clubs, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylee/pseuds/Skylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean investigate a spate of mysterious deaths at an all-male strip club owned by one of Sam's old friends. Expect misunderstandings, jealousy, a lot of sex, and a range of silly costumes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Hot in Here

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Supernatural Kink Big Bang - I signed up without really knowing what I was getting into and it hasn't been an easy journey, so I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labour. Let me know in the comments if you do!

Sam Winchester has faced a lot of challenges in his life – arguably more than most people. Killing wendigos, vampires, that weird thing a few weeks ago that looked like it had been freshly rejected from Tim Henman’s workshop – that was all easy.

Convincing his brother to take his clothes off in front of a group of fifty strangers – now that was hard.

Dean finally starts getting suspicious when they’re about an hour and a half away from their destination, which Sam knows means there’d be another hour before the inevitable happened.

It passes much too quickly – he hasn’t been given adequate time to plan.

                “Something you wanna tell me?” Sam shifts nervously in his seat. He’s been doing it the entire journey, not sure if it’s the fault of the knife in his back pocket, the after-effects of spicy tacos for lunch, or possibly guilt. He wonders if it’s too late to back out, but Dean has that challenging look in his eyes that promises he won’t get out of this.

                “Scott, the guy who called me-“

                “Your buddy from college. You said he owns a club.”

                “He owns a strip club, some of the dancers-“

                “A strip club?” Dean’s voice is full of barely-restrained glee. Sure enough, his eyes have lit up like he’s a five-year-old and just been offered a lifetime supply of candy. Sam stammers on.

                “An all-male strip club. I, um, said that…” he trails off, because Dean really doesn’t look perturbed. Ever since they started this (Dean would hate for him to use the word out loud, but nothing else fits) ‘relationship’ of theirs, Sam’s been convinced that Dean will freak out every time a situation which isn’t entirely heterosexual-seeming arises. To his credit, Dean’s actually pretty chilled out about it most of the time, which just makes Sam feel guilty for assuming otherwise and, perversely, a little like he wants to push the issue. Which might be why he’d agreed to Scott’s full request in the first place. “And we have to, um, dance.” Dean’s still grinning, and Sam waves his hand around, starting to wonder if Dean’s having some sort of aneurysm that means he can’t fully comprehend what Sam is saying. “This doesn’t bother you?”

                “Why would it? Okay, so there won’t be any hot chicks – disappointing, but I’ll live. And you’ll look good in assless chaps, Sammy. _That_ I know for sure.” Sam scowls. This isn’t going how he expected, not at all. He was thinking there’s be a lot more sputtering. Dean laughs, loud and carefree, and completely devoid of sputter. “C’mon, this’ll be fun. Lighten up.”

                “I also told him you were my boyfriend.” That gets a reaction. Dean starts a little, narrowing his eyes as he looks away from the road again (Sam wishes he didn’t do that so much – it makes him nervous). Dean’s always a bit funny about people thinking (knowing) they’re together. Sam doesn’t know if it’s because he feels guilty about sleeping with his little brother, or because he’s convinced that everyone thinks he’s ‘the girl’, no matter how many times Sam carefully explains that, actually, they’re both clearly not girls, the fact that Dean enjoys bottoming (a lot) doesn’t make him a girl, and, most importantly, people can’t tell the latter just by looking at him, no matter how much he thinks they can.

                “What? Why?” If he’s completely honest, Sam isn’t entirely sure why he didn’t just say Dean was his brother. Maybe he’s just sick of hiding what he and Dean really are to each other – not that ‘boyfriend’ really covers it either. He certainly won’t be admitting that to Dean, though.

                “You’re supposedly dead, remember?” St Louis is still a sore point for Dean and he scowls. Sam sighs, that sounded better in his head, and he knows he’d be pretty upset to have his existence (on paper anyway) obliterated like Dean’s was. “He asked if I was seeing anyone. I panicked. Not to mention, it’s essentially the truth.”

                “Oh, so we’re _boyfriends_ now?” He says it a little like the way an eight-year-old would say ‘vegetables’. Or, possibly, the way Dean would say ‘vegetables’.

                “Is there another word you’d prefer? I really thought the stripping was gonna be the issue here, y’know.” There’s no reply. Dean seems to have clammed up. Well, at least he’s finally being predictable.

They’ve almost arrived – literally minutes away – when Dean decides to speak to Sam again.

                “Are we gonna have to wear costumes at this place?” Sam has honestly no idea. His experience with female strippers is limited enough (a couple of rowdy 21st birthday parties in college, several occasions when Dean’s dragged him to some absolute dive full of shivering girls in ill-fitting underwear ‘for fun’, and one time which _was_ actually fun, but only because Dean was under a curse and thus completely unable to speak), and his experience with male strippers confined to one night out with Brady, where they’d ended up, wasted and with the kind of confidence only felt by the young and inexperienced with alcohol, in an all-male strip bar. Sam hadn’t really been sure of his sexuality at the time (weird crush on his brother notwithstanding) but he’d sat the entire time with his nails digging into his thighs, and laughed nervously after because he had no idea how he was feeling. Maybe he should have talked to Scott about it.

                “Probably,” he says, before he can get completely lost in the memory.

                “You’re wearing the cowboy one.”

                “How’d you know there’ll be a cowboy one?”

                “There’s always a cowboy one,” says Dean with conviction and something which sounds disturbingly like desire. Sam isn’t going to call him out on it. He feels exhausted already. Maybe he’ll have a nap.

                “Wake up, Princess, we’re here.”

The club is pretty well-kept, not in the worst part of town and from the outside it looks clean, if somewhat lacking in windows or obvious signage. Sam thinks he might have been expecting something huge and neon, but instead there’s just a rather tasteful sign over the front.

                Dean whistles. “This place is probably classier than all the strip joints I’ve ever been in combined.” He grins at Sam, who’s standing close to the car in the vague hopes it’ll just absorb him and he won’t need to bother with this case. “C’mon Sam, quit dawdling. We’ve got strippers to save.”

-

Scott looks a little different to how Sam remembers – he’s still attractive and a little over-tanned, but his regular megawatt smile has dimmed, and he looks a little drawn.

                “Thanks for coming Sam,” he says in a quiet voice once they’re alone. It takes a little while to find a place to sit in his office – somewhere that isn’t covered in feathers, glitter, or various other unidentified (but definitely sticky) substances. “I… I didn’t know what else to do.”

                “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Sam says, trying to look as encouraging and supportive as possible. “Tell us what’s been going on?” Scott nods and takes a breath. He doesn’t look like he’s actually going to cry, but it’s a dangerous possibility.

                “It started a few months ago. Dale – great guy, worked here forever – he died. The cops said it was ‘exhaustion’ or some shit. I thought it was a one-off. Three weeks ago Chris died. Exhaustion again. And then, a week ago, it was Nate. He was only nineteen.” Dean passes Scott a tissue from the enormous pack perched on his desk. He takes it without looking. “It’s getting more frequent, and I’ll have to close the club if this carries on. This place is my life, I don’t know what I’d..” he blows his nose, crumples up the tissue and then looks up at Sam and Dean with a game attempt at determination. “It’s not just about the club – these guys are my responsibility, and they’re dying. D’you guys really think you can help?”

-

                “Definitely sounds weird. Three guys in four months? Healthy guys don’t just drop dead from exhaustion like that.” They’re outside of the office again, Dean leaning against the wall while Scott has a quick conversation with a tall, muscular guy in a jockstrap and fireman’s helmet. Dean isn’t looking at Sam at all while he talks – his attention seems to be laser-focused on the fireman, and Sam resists the urge to snap his fingers in front of Dean’s face.

                “Could be drugs,” he says, and scowls at Dean’s distracted ‘hmm’ in response. Scott finishes up with the fireman (who Sam has decided looks like a total asshole, and he has great instincts, so why shouldn’t he trust them?) and walks over. Sam’s glad to see that he looks better already – nothing like the promise of help to perk up a tired complexion.

Fireman finally walks off, giving Dean a slow up-and-down look. It’s so obvious, the guy looks like a total idiot, but Dean seems to disagree. Sam feels a little light-headed, and he has the strangest urge to rip fireman’s dick off and stuff it in his stupid, smirking mouth. Instead he just schools his expression into something a little less homicidal, and leans over, his hand on the back of Dean’s neck. It looks possessive, but that’s kinda the point right now.

                “Why don’t you go back to the motel?” he says, “I’ll stay here and talk to some of these guys.”

                “Why don’t we both stay?” Dean’s tone of voice suggests a challenge, and Sam is so not in the mood.

                “You go hit the books. I’ll stay and find out what I can here.” He’s doing his best impression of Dad, which is creepy, but it does the job. Dean gives him one last long, calculating look before turning on his heel and sauntering away. It’s funny, because Sam expected him to draw in on himself a bit in a place like this, but he’s swaggering like he already owns the place, drawing a few admiring glances (only Dean could command so much attention fully clothed in a place brimming with attractive, half-naked men). It takes him a moment to realise he’s staring too, as is Scott, who waggles his eyebrows and grins suggestively. Sam finds himself missing the miserable, scared Scott from fifteen minutes ago, and feels an irritating pang of guilt.

                “Not that you didn’t already know this – but your boyfriend is about to make a lot of people _very_ happy.” For one terrible moment the familiar line (“no, he’s my brother”) rears up in Sam’s head and bobs around, unsaid, before he can push it away. He laughs nervously, and Scott slaps him on the shoulder, trying to school his grin into something more reassuring and not doing a very good job of it.

He thought it would be easy –this out in the open thing – but now he thinks about it he realises just how much he and Dean are used to pretending, their whole lives are built around it. Little lies on top of bigger ones, they lie to almost everyone they meet everyday, and suddenly telling the truth – even if it means telling another lie – is like a cold splash of water. Its illuminating, and not very nice. Objectively, he’s always known Dean is incredibly attractive. But seeing him, here and now, and comparing him with the other dancers, he suddenly realises what a specimen of perfection his brother is (and God does that sound ridiculous, even just in his mind, but it _fits_ ). It should make him happy, but it doesn’t. it makes him uncomfortable and nervous.

On top of that, he’s always reassured himself by saying that if people knew how much Dean was his, they’d back off and stop trying to touch him all the time. That doesn’t seem to be the case – maybe it’s just the guys here, sensing that it riles him and testing the water, taking his measure, or maybe it’s something about Dean – his beauty, the vulnerability of his looks despite how tall and brash he is.

Whatever it is, Sam doesn’t like it. Not one little bit.

\--

Dean is cheerfully humming and flicking through a ratty car magazine, sprawled out with his feet propped on the end of the bed, boots unlaced but still on. He looks so relaxed that Sam actually sneaks a look in the mirror, checking that his slight sense of unease isn’t plastered all over his face. He clearly hasn’t done a very good job. He’d probably feel better if he’d gotten more out of staying at the club than a heightened feeling of frustration.

Sam stalks over to his laptop, where Dean has clearly half-heartedly googled a few key features of the case – but only so Sam wouldn’t be able to accuse him of laziness. He should have pushed aside his jealousy and let Dean ask questions back at the club, it probably would have worked out better.

                “Any of the Chippendales know anything?”

                “No, and they’re not _Chippendales_. That’s a brand. Or something.”

                “Cheer up Sammy – you need to decide what glitter to mix in your baby oil tomorrow night – so for you that’d be a hot pink?” Sam scowls at him.

                “I still don’t get why you’re so alright with this. You realise you’re going to have to get up there, and dance and everything, right?” Dean just smirks, the bastard, and a thought suddenly occurs to Sam. “It’s like you’ve done this before.”

                “I have.” Wow, he honestly wasn’t expecting that.

                “When? And why didn’t you say something sooner? I was terrified you were gonna freak out about this whole thing, Dean!”

                “You never asked,” Dean says simply. “When you were at college. I was on a solo hunt, finished but ran out of money. Nowhere to hustle, and a chick I met worked for this strippogram company – did a couple of jobs, good money, and I was good at it.” He pauses, licks his lips. “ _Really_ good, apparently.” Sam sits down, this is a bit much.

                “Oh,” he says, finally. Dean smiles at him – not unkindly.

                “So maybe you’re the one who’s freaking out? Just a little?”

And this is just great, because Dean’s right. Dean’s always been able to fit into any role – Sam might be able to get people to trust him more easily, but when it comes to immediately making friends, and, hell, getting naked, Dean’s always been better at that.

So maybe he finally understands why Dean’s ok with this. He’d still like to know more about what happened when Dean stripped before.

For research reasons. Obviously.

-

By the law of Terrible Things, their first night on the job (so to speak) involves the two of them dressing up as some kind of ridiculous parody of Air Stewards. Dean won’t stop singing ‘Toxic’ (how he even knows the words, Sam isn’t sure he wants to know) while he flicks Sam with the tiny shorts he’s meant to be wearing (and honestly, he’s a little glad he’ll be taking them back off again so quickly – they are… ridiculous is really the only word for it).

It’s ten minutes ‘til showtime when Scott comes in to check on them. Dean’s adjusting his bow tie (and starting to look a little more sheepish, thank God) while Sam wonders how he can perch what he supposes is supposed to be some sort of hat on his head without his hair sticking up all over the place. Maybe he should gel it down? It worked when they pretended to be priests. Oh God, he hopes they’re not going to have to dress up as priests, it was weird and blasphemous enough just the one time, and not just because Dean seemed to… really, really enjoy it.

There’s a woman with Scott, business suit and with her makeup tasteful and subtle, which Sam supposes is her way of letting everyone know that she is most definitely _not_ a stripper. She’s maybe in her mid-forties, very good-lucking, and she’s staring at Dean like she wants to eat him alive. He’s clearly appreciative right back at her (subtlety has never been his strong point, and neither has restraint), and Sam fights the urge to wrap his (bare, greased-up) arms around his brother and growl at this woman until she goes away.

He doesn’t do that – he’s a grown man after all, not a dog – but that’s mostly because his train of thought is interrupted by Scott, who clearly has enough intuition to sense that Sam’s earlier burst of possessiveness wasn’t a one-off.

                “This is Elouise, she’s my, er-“

                “I help Scott with organisation. An area in which he’s sorely lacking, I’m afraid.” Her voice is cold and even, and she doesn’t take her eyes off Dean for a few moments, then shifts her gaze to Sam. It’s a little like being held under cold water. “My my, you two are just _delicious_.” When she finally gets bored of checking them both out (or trying to make them uncomfortable, Sam isn’t sure what her final goal is exactly), she turns back to Scott and says, “I’ll give them once chance on stage – they fuck it up, you find someone else.” And with that, she’s gone, stilettos clickety-clacking across the glitter-strewn floor, brushing imaginary dust from her immaculate shoulders.

                “What the hell?” Dean seems to have finally come back to himself. Scott rubs the back of his neck nervously.

                “Yeah… uh, I didn’t want to tell her I was getting ‘paranormal investigators’ or whatever to find out what’s been happening to the dancers, so I just said we got you in as replacements.” He pauses. “And I told her that you’d never done this before.”

                “I have!” says Dean indignantly, as though insulted that anyone would call him an _amateur_.

                “Oh,” says Scott, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Good.” He looks hopefully at Sam, who shakes his head. Scott doesn’t look disappointed exactly, just a little bit green, like he’s suddenly panicking about Sam going up to dance, which Sam thinks is unfair. The only one who’ll really be humiliated in this scenario is Sam himself.

                “Trust me,” says Dean, “Sam’ll be _fine_.” Sam’s not sure he agrees. He feels worryingly sticky, and the tiny blue shorts keep getting awkwardly stuck. They only seem to cover about half of his ass at the best of times and it’s not a pleasant feeling. Jess used to wear similar underwear all the time, he remembers, but he doesn’t remember her having to constantly fiddle with it. Scott gives him a nervous look.

                “Hopefully you guys’ll find out what’s going on quickly,” he says with what Sam imagines is supposed to be reassurance, but certainly doesn’t feel like it.

-

Dean’s agreed he’ll be first up, much to Sam’s relief. He watched a bit of someone else’s dance – enough to know that he won’t be attempting any moves on the pole just yet (it looks like it requires quite a lot of skill – he’s starting to wish they’d come in earlier to practice).

Dean winks at him before he slips on stage, and Sam wills himself to relax. Almost as soon as he gets on stage, the beat beginning to pound, what looks like a bachelorette party right next to the stage start shrieking in eerie unison. Clearly these people are easily pleased (not that Dean isn’t very nice to look out, but he literally just stepped onstage and they’re already at full volume – God, he hopes they won’t get any louder). That’s a comfort, he supposes.

Dean’s always had an easiness with his body that Sam’s never quite grown into with his own. He knows he’s attractive, knows how to use that to his advantage both on and off hunts. It’s gotten him in trouble plenty of times, too – and there are four years missing from Sam’s knowledge. He definitely knows what he’s doing on stage, confident and experienced, and that’s another reminder that Sam wasn’t there. He wishes he had been.

Because seeing Dean on stage like this? He doesn’t think he could ever get enough of that. Dean is _glowing_ , and it’s more than just oil and glitter, he looks _alive_. Sam’s mouth might be hanging open just a bit as Dean strips out of his tiny waistcoat and drops it, licking his lips in a way that looks unconscious but can’t be.

He catches Sam’s eye and winks, and suddenly everyone else just fades away. He knows Dean isn’t dancing for him, at least rationally, but it almost feels like he is. Dean loses the few clothes he’s wearing like he’s shedding skin – it’s natural and easy, and soon he’s writhing on the stage in nothing but a jockstrap, smile on his face like he’s having the time of his life.

-

When Dean gets offstage and saunters into the back, it’s with the same smug, self-satisfied look that he always used to sport after a successful hook-up. He’s left the audience happy and he knows it. Jack, the fireman stripper (he appears to be a caveman tonight, club and all) pats him on the back with a congratulatory smile. His hand lingers just a little too long to be friendly, and Sam glares at him. He’s staring at Dean’s ass as Dean goes to get changed. What a douchebag.

It’s Sam’s turn now, and his heart is pounding as much as it does on any hunt. The old saying ‘just imagine the audience in their underwear’ keeps popping into his head and, well, in this situation that certainly wouldn’t make them any _more_ vulnerable than him, and isn’t that meant to be the point? He’s on the verge of full-blown panic, ready to turn tail and run, when Dean catches him.

                “You’ll knock ‘em dead, just don’t think about it too much. Go with it.” Sam opens his mouth to protest, and Dean catches it in a searing kiss. Someone wolf-whistles but it’s drowned out by the rush of blood in Sam’s ears. They’ve never kissed in front of other people, it’s always been something that only existed in the dark. It’s only after Dad died that Dean was willing to acknowledge – in the daylight- that they were actually sleeping together and it wasn’t just some strange recurring hallucination Sam was having.

But now here they are. Dean looks a little surprised with himself as he pulls away, slapping Sam on the shoulder again.

                “Just don’t think about it too much. Imagine they’re all in their underwear,” and with a parting shove, Sam’s on his own.

-

Sam’s never been particularly good at putting himself on show, and if this isn’t putting himself on show then he doesn’t know what is.

 

He feels giddy, not sure if the beat he feels pumping through his body is just because the music’s loud, or if he’s just really getting into it now. It’s powerful, adoring crowd’s faces slightly blurred and they don’t seem so scary. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Elouise – she’s leaning against a table, surveying him with a look that’s almost hungry, and there’s that icy feeling again.

He tears his eyes away from her, focusing instead on the group of girls at the front of the stage. Initially they seem a much safer bet, but after one of them lurches forward to grab ahold of his leg, he focuses his attention elsewhere.

Finding his rhythm is easy enough, and now the only real barrier in his way is remembering to take off his clothes at regular intervals, and try to do it as gracefully as possible.

He’s methodical to the extreme, and the whole thing feels almost clinical and totally unlike Dean’s dance, which was free and seemingly effortless, but when the song ends he’s almost naked, and the crowd is cheering and throwing money at him. It feels like affirmation, and he thinks he’ll count it as a success.

-

Dean’s on him almost the second he steps off the stage.

                “Jesus Christ, De-mmphh!” Sam feels a bit sticky and gross, and as Dean is also sticky and gross and currently pressed right up against him, it’s a slightly awkward situation. He has a horrible moment imagining them being stuck together with an awful mix of oil and sweat before Dean peels off him. Literally, peels. There’s a popping sound and everything.

                “Motel, now,” Dean pants. Sam can’t really do more than nod and allow Dean to lead him out, only pausing to grab about half their clothes (which doesn’t seem to include pants.) Scott gives him a wink and a thumbs up as they lead. It’s a little like being in some kind of strange dream.

Sam’s lips are tingling by the time they throw themselves through the motel room door.

Dean isn’t usually forceful – when this whole thing started, it took a long time for him to allow himself to be enthusiastic. There had to be so much reassurance on both sides, both reiterating over and over that they really did want to do this. It was exhausting. Since Sam’s time in college, since they’ve gone back on the road and reignited whatever it is they have between them, it’s been so much easier.

Before, their relationship was a constant source of anguish and fear – fear of discovery, of the few people they knew rejecting them, maybe just of someone being right, that they were too close and always had been. Now it’s a comfort.

It’s slightly less comforting when Sam’s jerked out of his introspection by Dean biting hard into the side of his neck (Sam prefers doing the biting – getting bitten has always been more Dean’s quirk than his).

                “You’re not concentrating.” Dean doesn’t sound annoyed, just challenging, and Sam retaliates by pushing Dean up against the wall, and biting him back, harder. They’ll both have bruises in the morning, but he knows what this is. It’s not how they do it after a hunt, when their blood’s up and they’re both just relieved to be alive, and together. They’re celebrating, sure, but mostly it’s just that they’re both horny and worked up, and maybe a little jealous.

                “You looked so hot up there,” murmurs Dean as Sam wrestles his jeans and underwear off, “you felt it, huh? The rush of everyone watching…”

                “And you call me kinky,” Sam laughs, punctuating it with a slap to Dean’s ass. Dean just grins and tosses him some lube. Sam wonders when he picked it up – it’s new and looks fancier than the basic stuff they usually use.

                “Perks of working in a strip club,” Dean says, and Sam realises he was talking out loud. He bites his lip and slicks up his fingers.

Soon enough he’s twisting two fingers in Dean’s ass, his brother thrusting back and keeping up a steady litany of ‘fuckmefuckmefuckme’ – he doesn’t have much control over his mouth at the best of times, and it’s worse like this. He just blabbers. It’s cute, but distracting. Sam adds a little tweist, and Dean cuts off. Sam smirks and pulls out, drawing nothing more than a whine out of Dean this time.

Before Dean can start mouthing off again, Sam lines up and thrusts in. They haven’t really prepared enough (which happens quite a lot, and Sam strongly suspects it’s part of the reason Dean walks the way he does, but if Dean was at all bothered about it Sam’s sure he’d never hear the end of it, so obviously it’s not a problem. Sometimes he wonders if his brother might have a little bit of a _thing_ for pain), and it’s a tight fit, but Dean relaxes almost immediately.

It’s fast, furious, and a little brutal. Dean is pushed further and further up the crappy motel bed until he’s got one hand pressed against the wall and the other gripping white-knuckled to the bed, muscles cording in his arms. Sam’s fingers burn white-hot where he’s gripping Dean’s hips, and sweat is trickling down the back of his neck. When he comes, it takes him by surprise, and he slips a little down the bed, before reaching forward to jerk Dean roughly to completion.

                “Awesome,” pants Dean as he rolls over, bright-eyed and smiling languidly.

                “Yeah,” breathes Sam, “so awesome.”

-             

“I almost forgot,” says Sam, when Dean comes out of the shower, surreptitiously admiring the bruises on his hips. “Elouise-“

                “-the scary chick?”

                “Yeah, her. She was watching while I was dancing. I got kind of a… weird feeling.”

                “You’re such a cougar magnet.”

                “She started working at the club about the same time the dancers started dying.” That, at least, seems to get Dean’s attention. He still doesn’t look convinced, though.

                “So she gave you a skeevy vibe. Doesn’t mean she gets her kicks by draining strippers’ life forces.”

                “I just think we should consider her a suspect.” Sam pauses, thinking. “I mean, it’s not like we have anything else to go on.” Biting his lip, he gives Dean a sidelong look. “You’re not jealous?”

Dean snorts. “Hell no. I’m prettier than her anyway,” he accentuates the words with a pout and a flutter of his eyelashes. Sam throws a pillow at him, and Dean sighs and flops back onto the bed, turning over and holding tight to the pillow Sam threw at him. He should have known that would backfire. Sam suddenly feels incredibly tired. If he has dreams about having to dance in a costume that looks disturbingly like a giant, neon chicken, well, it’s been a very long day.

-

With no leads, they eventually decide checking out the morgue might be a good idea after all. Dean isn’t too enthusiastic about putting his fed suit on. It’s funny, because Sam has always suspected that Dean rather likes dressing up, and it might just be that he suits they’re forced to wear are rendered a little uncomfortable by spending most of their time in a screwed-up ball at the bottom of a duffel bag. They usually try to steam them in the shower, which isn’t really adequate.

                “One day we should get proper, fitted suits,” he says as Dean fiddles irritably with his collar. “Get them dry-cleaned and everything.”

                “Oh boy,” says Dean in an eerily accurate impression of a Southern Belle (although Sam thinks he might be attempting a Victorian Urchin and just hasn’t located the accent of his impersonation properly), “can we, Sir?” Sam’s probably supposed to laugh, but it’s surprising what an effect Dean calling him ‘sir’ has. Silly accent and all. Dean raises an eyebrow at him suggestively, act thankfully dropped. “Wow, you’re easy,” he chuckles.

He seems in a good mood though – even pinches Sam’s ass on their way into the  morgue, which Sam doesn’t think is helpful in giving them an air of professionalism, but it does cheer him up a bit.

The poor mortician, a slightly frazzled-looking woman in her fifties, is just as confused by the case as everyone else, and is immensely grateful that the ‘CDC’ have stepped up to the plate.

                “We thought it was drugs at first,” she says, “but not a single one of these guys had anything in their system.”

                “Dead of exhaustion, right?”, says Sam. Dean is already lifting the edge of the latest corpse’s sheet to peer underneath. The mortician nods.

                “I’ve never seen anything like it before. To be honest, I don’t know if it can be a virus. It just doesn’t seem to fit. My guess is some kind of poison we haven’t been able to detect.” Someone knocks on the door, gesturing to her, and she smiles tightly at both of them. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment – let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Sam walks over to the corpse and looks down into the man’s dead, glassy eyes. His skin is dried out, cheekbones hollow – far beyond decomposition. In fact, he hasn’t decomposed much at all. He looks…

                “Mummified,” says Dean grimly. The corpse isn’t fully mummified, obviously

There’s something at the corner of the corpse’s mouth, a little red smudge. Sam surreptitiously wipes at it with a cotton bud.

                “It’s just blood,” says Dean.

                “No, I don’t think so,” says Sam. He sniffs it, ignoring the look of outrage and disgust on Dean’s face. “It doesn’t smell like blood, and anyway none of them bled from the mouth. It’s some kind of powder.”

                “Makeup? Or it could be from whatever killed them. If it went all ‘Species’ on them or something.” That stirs something up in Sam’s brain. He can’t think what it is, exactly – there isn’t enough to go on. But it sounds familiar. Like something should be clicking.

-

The other strippers are actually pretty nice, when Sam isn’t terrified they’re going to steal Dean away with their superiorly sculpted abs. The fact that Sam’s taller than most of them (so is Dean, to be fair) also works in their favour. He’s even started to accept that Jack’s constant flirting and casual touching of Dean is probably just the way he is – the other strippers are all pretty clear that he’s a flirt, and pounces on every hot guy who comes through the door, which makes Sam feel possibly a little inadequate, even if Scott insists Jack’s just scared of him.

Elouise, however, continues to be terrifying. She constantly stares at him as though he’s doing something wrong (and, ok, he did once, but how was he supposed to know they had to keep glitter-encrusted and sequin-embroidered underwear separate?), and even when he knows full-well that he’s behaving impeccably, her eyes never seem to stray too far.

Once they’ve warmed up to Sam and Dean, some of the guys actually do impart little snippets of weird goings-on from around the times of the murders.

Apparently, in the week or so before they were unfortunately bumped off, all three of the guys had mentioned ‘weird’ dreams. That stirs some kind of recollection in the back of Sam’s mind, nudging irritatingly, on the tip of his tongue, until he remembers.

                “Dean. I think it’s a succubus.”

                “Shit,” says Dean, not excited or confused. Sam kinda wants to ask him about any succubi he may or may not have hunted in the past (maybe when he was also earning a little extra cash and learning those secret dancing skills he’s been using to devastating effect now) but this is research, not an opportunity to grill his brother. Dean seems to be in a sharing mood though, because he fixes Sam with his very best ‘I’m your big brother and what I’m about to say is a matter of life and death’ look and takes a deep breath. “I hunted one a few years back, in Montana. It was nasty.”

                “Okay,” says Sam steadily. “Anything worth keeping in mind?”

                “Mm,” Dean murmurs, “well, the one we were hunting was pretending to be a teacher at a high school. Oh, and they don’t actually care too much about gender – that’s a myth.”

                “Good to know they’re so progressive,” Sam says with a slight smile.

                “Yeah, well, they’re evil. And gross. Even if they take super-hot human forms.” The last part is said a little wistfully and Sam wrinkles his nose in distaste.

                “Did you…?“ It’s a possibility. Dean’s chatted up a few nasty monsters masquerading as pretty girls over the years. All part of the hunter lifestyle (or so Dean always cheerfully insists).

                “Dude, no!” Dean pauses guiltily. “But it was close. Anyway, they’re pretty standard when it comes to offing them – silver knife, and they’re vulnerable to holy water too.” It’s an out of the conversation, which Sam accepts graciously. He’s not sure he wants to hear about Dean being maybe-suckered by a succubus anyway.

                “Anything else?”

                “Not fond of graham crackers?” Sam’s not sure it’s a joke.

-

Even though dancing on his own wasn’t the disaster he expected it to be, Sam’s a little worried about the prospect of dancing with Dean – at least when he’s on his own no one can compare his skills with Dean’s and realise he’s lacking – but more than a little excited as well. Their outfits are still stupid (is it creepy to dress up as ‘sexy schoolboys’ when you’re in your twenties?)

Dean’s almost _too_ enthusiastic. They worked out the dance beforehand, but it seems different on stage. The idea of smacking Dean with a cane seemed utterly ridiculous in theory (and it’s still pretty silly in practice) but right now it’s actually pretty sexy. Dean leans over, winking, as Sam cracks a cane across his ass. It’s not heavy, but he’s pretty sure it must hurt. Dean seems to be enjoying himself- and even though pain is definitely something they’ve explored (not on purpose – it’s just difficult not to when you spend as much time getting injured as they do), Sam can’t help noticing just how much Dean is relishing every strike. Maybe it’s the attention they’re getting from the crowd too – he’s sure he would have noticed Dean licking his lips like that when he’s firing rock salt at ghosts. Even when he’s eating he doesn’t look so obscene – unless he’s doing it on purpose.

He’s jealous again.

Which is ridiculous, extra-super relevant right now because he’s the one with his hands all over Dean, getting the full treatment of Dean dropping and rubbing against him, looking back at him from under those long, dark lashes. His expression is ridiculous. As someone who actually knows Dean, Sam knows it’s put on. But the girls he offers it to go crazy, screaming and reaching out before he shies away, too quick to notice. It’s a tease, and Sam tries to ignore it and look like he’s the one in control.

The first layer comes off quick enough – ties torn away and flung aside. The shirts aren’t much harder. Really, the only difficult thing is having Dean pressed up so close against him. It’s boiling hot and awkward, and it shouldn’t be this tempting to press his body up against Dean’s, not when they’ve been together for so long. Maybe it’s how public it is, people screaming and cheering on all sides, watching them grind their bodies together. It’s a little ridiculous, but Dean is panting against his mouth, pulling Sam down for another kiss. A small, irritating voice at the back of his mind wonders if they’re really being professional, but it’s quickly shut down when Dean grinds up against him. He’s at least managing to keep the beat, but when he surges back again Sam grabs him and spins him around.

He wrangles Dean out of the shorts, so all he’s wearing is a tiny pair of briefs with “Private School Boyz’ emblazoned across the back. Stifling a snort (not like he can talk, he’s wearing a pair of his own), he pulls Dean back against him, letting Dean grind back against his groin. Dean tosses him a look over his shoulder, gazing up from under long, sooty lashes. He’s beautiful, so beautiful, and the sudden rush of love Sam feels all of a sudden makes the rest of the dance pass in a blur.

-

Shockingly, he’s actually looking forward to dancing again the next night, especially after a day of finding absolutely nothing. Then he sees what he’s going to be wearing.

Dean was right. There is a cowboy outfit. It’s obscene – assless chaps, dumb waistcoat (Sam is sick of waistcoats, he’s pretty sure this is the only time in his entire life he’s ever had to wear one – this and the air steward getup, anyway – but he already knows he never wants to wear one ever again), boots, and of course, the hat.

The chaps are obscenely tight, and he’s worried they’re making him walk like Dean (he might even say that to Dean’s face if he gets chafed enough). He knows how stupid he looks, and he takes a deep breath and steels himself for Dean’s peals of laughter.

They never come. Instead, Dean’s staring at him with a very odd expression on his face.

                “You look… wow, I mean…”

                “Stupid, I know.” Sam cranes around to stare at his own ass, and doesn’t miss Dean’s eyes following his movements.

                “S’not what I was going to say.” Dean’s voice is deep and ragged, the same way it gets when he’s… oh. So that’s what this is about. This, Sam can work with.

                “This workin’ for you, huh?” he says with considerable amusement. He’s always known Dean loved Dr Sexy, and up until now he thought the appeal was mostly down to the ‘sexy doctor’ aspect, or maybe something to do with the actor’s voice and trademark smoulder. From the way Dean’s staring at his feet, he thinks Dr Sexy’s choice in footwear might have had a bigger impact than anything else. “Wow, I didn’t think you had a foot feti-woah!”

The chaps are off in five seconds flat – Sam’s learned recently how good Dean is at taking his own clothes off, but he wasn’t expecting him to be quite so skilled at removing other peoples’. It’s quite exciting, actually, but before he can start musing about how nice it would be to do this more often, Dean is on his knees, nuzzling at Sam’s thighs. He looks up at Sam, the same smouldering look he’d given him when they were dancing, and Sam’s cock gives a little twitch. Dean grins and sucks the end into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head.

Sam’s so distracted by Dean’s mouth on his cock that he doesn’t notice Dean’s other hand, the one he hasn’t got curled around Sam’s thigh, is rubbing a steady rhythm on the toe of his boot. Inspiration strikes all of a sudden and he slowly slides his foot in between Dean’s thighs.

Dean gives him a look that’s nearly a glare, but doesn’t pull away, and slowly comprehension blooms over his face. He licks up the side of Sam’s cock slowly, deliberately, then takes him deep – deeper than Sam’s used to (it’s never been an easy feat for the vast majority of Sam partners, even if he does say so himself) and humps himself against Sam’s boot.

It’s wanton and filthy and probably the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen, and all he can think when he comes down Dean’s throat (Dean comes at almost exactly the same time, and Sam doesn’t know whether it’s the friction or the general dirtiness of this situation) is that he really needs to get himself a proper pair of cowboy boots.

-

His confidence is definitely building, and when he gets up onstage in the cowboy outfit (after carefully checking it for any suspicious stains) he finally feels like he knows what he’s doing. Elouise is watching again, and even though he tries not to let it affect him, he’s supposed to be noticing anything suspicious.

And she doesn’t just look turned on, she looks _hungry_.

Dean’s obviously worried too, because his eyes are glued to her as he mutters in Sam’s ear.

                “We’ll watch her – hang around, see when she goes home. She could be our monster.”

-

Watching Elouise sounds easy enough, but she hasn’t left even after closing and thanks to the club being surprisingly labyrinthine after hours, Sam’s managed to freak himself out. He knew splitting up was a bad idea, and really Dean should have too – you’d think he’d learn something from all the terrible horror movies he watches. The strip club is surprisingly spooky when it’s empty, a far cry from the energy pumping through it when it’s heaving with people. He never thought he’d miss the sounds of deep, thumping bass, but he really does right now.

Especially when the hairs on the back of his neck prickle up all at once. Sam has good instincts, he knows, and right now they’re telling him there’s someone right behind him.

“I was hoping to catch you alone,” says a familiar female voice, low and terrifying. _I knew it_ , he thinks hysterically, because it’s so obvious, really, they should have just stabbed her the second they realised a succubus was behind the deaths. Sam freezes, breathing hard. He knows what to do in this type of situation, but usually he’s got at least one weapon on him and isn’t just wearing a pair of assless leather chaps. And a cowboy hat (can he use the hat as a weapon? Should he have stored a dagger inside the hat and hoped not to be injured? Is he completely hysterical right now? That’s the only question he can answer right now, and the answer is definitely yes). Still, if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s improvisation.

                “I know what you are.” He cringes a little (isn’t that a line out of Twilight?) but turns around slowly. Elouise is standing behind him, way too close for comfort, that hungry look on her face again.

                “Oh?” She breathes, “and what’s that?” She runs her hand up his chest. “A predator?”

                “Sure,” says Sam, “if that’s how you like to put it.”

                “I do like a chase,” she smiles, “and you’ve given me a very nice one.”

                “Oh yeah?” He tries to stand up straight, look as threatening as possible. He has no weapon, no escape route – all he can hope for is to surprise her enough that she falters for a second and gives him some kind of chance to either run, or incapacitate her. Right now they have no idea how to kill a succubus, and that’s the kind of information he feels would be pretty useful. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but I think it’s going to go a little differently than with the others.”

                “What?” She sounds genuinely confused. Points for acting skill, he thinks hysterically. There’s a wrench lying on the floor nearby, maybe if he could just get to it.

                “The other guys you murdered.” She blinks, clearly being blunt is working to distract her. He reaches for the wrench

                “What are you talking about? I haven’t killed anyone!” Wow, she’s really good. And for some reason she’s backing away… this can’t be right.

It’s at that moment that Dean bursts in, guns thankfully not a-blazing, but close enough. Elouise backs away with the speed of a dumped high school kid running from the cafeteria (and Sam knows from experience how fast that is), leaving Dean looking a little confused and disoriented.

                “Er,” he says eloquently. Elouise takes that as her signal to leave, and slips out of the room without making eye contact with either of them.

                “It’s not her.” Says Sam, very aware of the awkward situation he’s in but a little confused by his erection’s persistence. Why won’t it go away. Dean squints at him.

                “What the fuck happened here?”

                “I – I have no idea.”

-

They’re now back at square one – no suspects. Sam developed a stress headache the second Dean mused that the culprit might be a customer, not staff at all, because they get a lot of customers, and Sam doesn’t see how they could possibly manage to vet them all for signs of secret succubussery.

Just as the headache works up to a screaming pain in his temples, there’s a knock on the door of the broom cupboard-cum-office where he and Dean have been dejectedly looking for ‘clues’ in customer incidents.

                “Eh?” He says tiredly, and the door pushes hesitantly open.

                “Listen, I’m terribly sorry about what happened yesterday. I really don’t know what came over me.” All the seduction has vanished from Elouise’s voice, leaving it strangely flat. Actually, the way she’s resolutely _not_ checking him or Dean out is almost uncomfortable – it feels against the natural order of things.

                “Er,” says Sam awkwardly, with what he hopes is a little more enthusiasm. He’s not entirely sure that’s truthful – now he realises she was eyeing him up since she arrived, and not giving him the stink-eye like he thought she was (and doesn’t he feel like an idiot for not catching on straight away?) he can’t help but feel that this wasn’t some kind of in-the-moment sexual madness brought on by succubus pheromones, after all, he and Dean are managing to keep their hands off each other (mostly) and no one else is acting strangely enough that anyone’s noticed anything wrong. He wants to be nice to her, he really does, but he can’t help feeling that she’s fucked up their investigation. Not to mention royally pissing Dean off in the process. Luckily, Dean rescues him before he has the chance to start giving her the third degree.

                “Hey, er, Elouise?” Dean’s got his slightly-threatening tone of voice layered under friendliness, it’s subtle but Sam suspects Elouise isn’t exceptionally skilled at reading people. Maybe she’s better than he thought, though, because she looks worried.

                “I should apologise to you too,” she says. Dean waves her away.

                “Just – no means no goes for everyone, okay?” She looks distraught but Dean’s face doesn’t soften. She stammers out something about having to go, and shuffles away. She looks much smaller now that Sam isn’t worried she’s an evil succubus. He’s still pretty angry though.

-

                “I thought you handled that well,” Sam says to Dean later. Dean’s defying so many of his expectations during this hunt, the way he handled the situation with Elouise is just the latest surprise.

                “Well, at least we got her off your back,” says Dean. “You must be relieved. What kind of crazy chick corners a guy in an empty strip club? Fuckin’ weird, man.”

“Ah well,” says Sam with a shrug. “No harm, no foul.”

“She _was_ scary though,” Dean is clearly trying very hard not to laugh, but not doing a good job of it at all.

                “Tell me about it,” Sam sighs.

“I told you she was into you, though,” Dean still sounds awfully smug.

 “Yeah, yeah. But you thought she wanted to _kill_ me. Are we even still sure it’s a succubus doing it?”

                “S’what all the signs point to. Freaky-ass sex dreams, drained of energy… whole nine yards.” Dean is doing what he always does- taking his standard checklist. He probably has it written down somewhere. Sam finds it vaguely amusing that Dean., who prides himself on being so carefree and without rules, conforms so much to standard procedure.

                “I haven’t been having any sex dreams.”

                “Hmm.” Dean sounds almost sheepish. Almost embarrassed.

                “Wait a second, have you been having sex dreams? Why didn’t you say so?” Radio silence. “Oh come on, it can’t be that embarrassing.”

                “It is!” Dean sounds frustrated – and more than a little embarrassed. Sam can’t help feeling like if this was the other way round, Dean would be making fun of him for this. He can’t quite bring himself to do that though.

                “Why didn’t you tell me? This is kind of important!” He pauses, thinking hard. “Oh God, is it that fucking _fireman_ guy?” Dean is completely silent. “It was, wasn’t it? Holy shit!”

Sam supposes he shouldn’t really be pissed off – Dean checks out girls all the time, after all. He usually points them out to Sam though (even when Sam is resolutely not interested – that’s all part of their routine though, Dean leers, Sam rolls his eyes and sighs at Dean’s caveman attitude, familiar and safe), and Sam’s not really used to Dean showing any kind of interest in guys who aren’t him, even though intellectually he knows that’s silly. He damps down his jealousy and shakes his head at Dean.

                “Tell me about them.”

                “What? No! That’s private, dude!” Dean looks skittish, eyes wide and wary. It’s funny, Dean’s filfthy-mouthed and with no filter whatsoever when it comes to talking about girls – stuff he’s done, stuff he wants to do, confessions of dirty thoughts don’t seem to faze him usually.

                “Why? Was it really weird?” This is the only way Sam knows how to get Dean to tell him the truth. Make it sound like he’s assuming the worst. “Have you been spending time on the weird part of the internet again?” Dean chucks something small and hard at him, which Sam dodges, laughing.

                “Fine,” he spits, “since you’re so eager to know.” He starts fidgeting again, not quite able to meet Sam’s eyes as he mumbles out, “I’m tied up. Usually, anyway. Nothing weirder than that!” the last part is particularly emphatic. Sam shrugs.

                “That’s not even that weird.” He pauses, because the mental images he’s getting now are taking him in an entirely different direction than brotherly ribbing. “Is that something you’re into? Or just weird dreams?” Dean gives him a slightly guilty look and he sighs in exasperation. “Why haven’t you told me? I’m totally down for tying you up! Did you think I wouldn’t be?” Dean looks a little confused, like he’s expecting a trick, but Sam presses on. “And I bet I’ll do it better than fucking _Jack_.”

And that, at least, prompts a blinding grin.

-

Sam feels a little giddy – he’s not sure how exactly they’d decided to do this (some combination of his jealousy and Dean’s guilt, their combined insecurities, maybe that pain _thing_ he suspects Dean has, deep down – it might not be the healthiest solution but they’re brothers who’re having sex with each other so, really, who cares?) but he feels it’s a little late to back out, and the last thing he wants is Dean accusing him of being a pussy.

                “So… er,” he starts lamely. Dean waves Sam’s lasso at him. “You want me to lasso you?” That’s pretty weird, but he thinks he can work with it.

                “No, dumbass,” says Dean, rolling his eyes. “Tie me up with it.”

                “We have handcuffs in the car…”

                “Well, I like this better!” Dean sounds a little annoyed, and in order not to piss him off anymore, Sam accepts the lasso and loops it around Dean’s wrists. The action pulls Dean up against him, and he grins.

                “Yeah, I like this better too.”

                “Let’s get this show on the road, Indiana Jones.”

A wave of giddiness hits as Sam’s lashing dean to the headboard. This isn’t really anything unusual – people tie each other up during sex all the time – but the level of trust Dean puts in him is incredible, and he feels a warm pulse of love towards his brother for it.

Once Dean is tied securely, Sam runs a hand down Dean’s side, and he shivers against the touch.

                “Yeah, c’mon,” he mutters, and Sam sighs, and retrieves one of his ties from his duffle, gagging Dean with it and tying the end around the back of his head.

                “Shut up,” he says, “I’m trying to concentrate.” Pausing, he adds, “if you wanna stop just tap your right foot three times.” Dean rolls his eyes – he probably thinks safewords and signals are for pussies, but Sam thinks that’s probably a little unwise.

Drawing back, he surveys Dean’s body, assessing. Dean is beautiful of course, and he’s _Sam’s_ – right now more than ever. Their relationship might have caused them some problems (misunderstandings, other peoples’ crap opinions, their own insecurities) but in the end, the fact that Dean _belongs_ to him is so incredible that he doesn’t care about anything else.

He slaps the flesh of Dean’s ass experimentally – just a tap really, but it’s kind of fascinating the way the flesh goes white and then red, fading almost instantly. Encouraged, he slaps harder. Dean seems to be enjoying it, cock hard and dripping, and Sam grins to himself because _he knew it_. He knew Dean would get off on this.

Dean’s ass is red now, and hot to the touch when he strokes over it, soothing the pain away. It’s so different to dressing Dean’s wounds after a hunt, but that’s his first comparison and it kind of fits. It’s tempting to keep just running his hands over Dean’s smooth, hot skin, but his cock is throbbing in a not-entirely-pleasant way, and instead he enters Dean (who’d already prepared himself – he’d have made a good boy scout with that kind of forethought) in one smooth motion.

It’s slower than last time, but not gentle. Sam angles himself carefully, trying to hit Dean’s prostate as much as he can, and from the muffled noises Dean’s making, it’s worth it. He goes deep, hands moving over Dean’s back and the reddened skin of his ass, until one particular press of his fingers makes Dean suddenly cry out, and he comes without Sam even touching him.

Sam’s a little surprised (that’s never happened before, and he’s pretty sure it’s unusual) but, feeling his own climax approaching, he pulls out and jerks himself through the last of it, coming all over Dean’s back.

Spent, he collapses on top of Dean and lies there until Dean starts bitching about stickiness and the indignity of being ‘crushed to death by my overgrown little brother’.

-

Dean’s eyes are still dark and wet, his chest heaving with exertion.

                “Are we sure the guys weren’t killed by some sort of… super sexy energy overload? With which she wasn’t directly involved? ‘Cause I feel like that’s what just happened. D’you feel like that’s what just happened?” Sam tries very hard not to feel too smug. “I mean,” Dean continues, “we’ve never done anything like that before. Even when we role-played with the SWAT team outfits.”

                “Oh yeah,” says Sam wistfully.

                “So does this mean we’re good?” Dean doesn’t sound too anxious, so Sam makes a show of considering it.

                “I dunno, would you’ve rather I’d put on the fireman costume?”

                ”Nah. Everyone knows cowboys are sexier.”

Unbidden, a stray thought skitters across Sam’s mind. “Dean,” he says, even surprising himself with the change in his tone. “What if it’s not a succubus?” Dean laughs, shaking his head.

                “There’s nothing else it could be. Unless it’s something which imitates a succubus – which is the last thing we need, really, I mean – monsters imitating other monsters?” He’s still smiling. “That’s just… silly.”

                “No,” says Sam, slightly exasperated that Dean can’t just read his mind. “There’s another monster which leaves exactly the same signs. What if it’s an _incubus_?” Dean squints at him.

                “A _dude_ sex demon? That’s… actually that makes a lot of sense.”

Dean’s phone rings and Sam blinks at it. He really isn’t up to talking to anyone right now. sleep is pretty much his number one priority. Dean isn’t in much better shape than him, but he fumbles for it and manages to just about answer it.

                “Dean’s… this is Dean’s phone?” There’s a long pause while Dean’s eyebrows steadily knit together and he mutters, “uh huh, don’t panic. We’ll be there soon.” He gives Sam a meaningful look and starts pulling his clothes on. They’re going out. Sam’s a little annoyed – he was quite enjoying his post-sex haze, thankyou very much, but the look on Dean’s face tells him it’s an emergency.

Dean hangs up and turns to him with a grimace.

                “Well?” Sam prompts.

                “That was Jack. He’s stuck in the club – said all the lights went out – he was freaking out a bit, said he’d been having weird dreams and that he was scared.” Dean looks genuinely worried, and despite Sam’s jealousy towards Jack, the guy hasn’t really done anything wrong. He doesn’t deserve to be killed a sex demon, that’s for sure.

-

The club is silent, more eerie somehow than the last time they were here out of hours. Dean’s got the knife – silver and dipped in holy water just to be safe – hidden inside his jacket for now and he and Sam approach quietly and cautiously.

There’s a crash from inside, and Dean starts, wide-eyed. Sam’s suspected for a while that he’s got just a little bit of a crush on Jack, and he certainly doesn’t want to see him dead (or maybe Sam’s being unfair – dean’s always been driven to save people, no matter who they are). When a scream – unmistakeably Jack – peels through the air, Dean abandons their carefully thought-out plan, and charges in.

Sam is right on his heels, almost within touching distance. Then Dean passes through a door, which slams shut behind him with unnatural speed and firmness.

He knows even before he starts trying to wrench it open that this was a trap.

-

It takes him a long time – too long – to bash the door open with a fire extinguisher. He hopes Scott can forgive him for the damages, but saving Dean (and maybe Jack, he could still be just an unwitting pawn in this after all) is too important right now for a little destruction to cause him any guilt at all.

There’s noise coming from the empty stage – muffled voices, and one is definitely Dean’s. Sam creeps inside as silently as possible, then stops dead in his tracks.

-

Jack – although it doesn’t look much like Jack anymore, black scales blossoming on its arms, hair receding into its skull – has Dean pressed up against the wall, one increasingly scaly hand rubbing up and down Dean’s exposed chest. Dean’s knife is lying abandoned on the floor, but it’s close enough to reach silently, and Sam does, slipping it up his sleeve.

                “You know,” the thing purrs, apparently unaware of Sam’s approach (and boy would he like to keep it that way), “I’ve had _so_ many of you, but you are by far the most delicious.” Dean is breathing hard, his eyes unfocused. Now Sam is closer, he can see the faint dusting of red powder at the corners of Dean’s mouth. He’s out of it, almost completely, but he still bats at the incubus’ hands. It only laughs at his feeble kitten-swipes, seizing both of Dean’s hands in one of its enormous, taloned ones, and shoving the other down the front of Dean’s pants. Dean immediately goes still – the last thing he wants to be doing when he has razor-sharp claws in close proximity to his junk is wriggle around.

Sam’s getting frantic, well aware that he’s running out of time. Panicking, he goes for the only thing he can think of to stop the immediate danger.

                “Get the fuck away from him!” The thing whips its head round. It still looks enough like Jack to be well-settled in the uncanny valley, the middle of its face far too smooth to be human but still retaining the features and intelligent smirk of one. Its teeth are just a little too sharp though, and the scales ringing its face are a dead giveaway.

                “We’re a little busy here, loverboy. But if you sit quietly I’ll get to you in a minute.” It drops Dean, who slumps to the ground. He stays still until the thing stops looking at him, but as soon as its back is turned he raises his head and locks eyes with Sam. Dean’s eyes are bleary and he’s clearly still in no shape to fight, but he’s not as gone as the incubus clearly thinks he is.

It’s prowling towards Sam now, looking him up and down with disconcerting flicks of its eyes.

                “You’re not as pretty as your boyfriend,” it purrs, “but you look very strong. I like that.”

                “I’m flattered,” says Sam monotonously. He’s got the silver knife tucked up inside his sleeve – if he can get close enough to get a good swipe in, this could all be over quickly, but the incubus is fast and clever. His only advantage is that it doesn’t know they’re hunters.

                “If he really is your boyfriend,” the thing continues. It’s clearly as fond of monologueing as all evil things tend to be (and why that is Sam suspects will always remain a mystery), and this could be a good opportunity to get a little closer and try for an attack. “You two smell very similar.”

                “Well, we spend a lot of time together,” Sam puts in, cautiously. Dean is blinking rapidly, the clouds over his eyes appearing to dissipate a bit. If he can just keep the incubus distracted for a little longer…

                “It’s more than that,” the incubus presses on, perhaps sensing it’s hitting a nerve. “You smell like you could be family.” It laughs, sounding a little like Tim Curry in _Legend_ , and if he wasn’t worried about pissing it off, Sam probably would have laughed himself. Despite his current condition, Dean’s lips twitch a little. What the incubus is actually saying loses its effect a little after that.

It’s probably time to kill it now, especially as it seems annoyed by their rapidly dwindling fear.

                “You got a weapon?” He hisses at Dean, and – out of nowhere – Dean twirls Sam’s lasso in his hands.

                “Th-that’s just a prop,” Sam stutters, “I don’t think you could actually-“ before he can continue, Dean lets the lasso fly. His expression suggests that, just as Sam suspected, he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. Sam supposes that’s to be expected, given that Dean can’t be going on more than a visual guide from his favourite Clint Eastwood movies.

                “Take this you sleazy son-of-a-“incredibly, impossibly, the lasso wraps around the incubus. All three of them hiss in surprise, and dean lets out a hysterical sort of half-laugh, half-bark as he takes in his own success. He jerks his head towards the immobilized incubus with a wide grin lighting up his face. “Sammy, didja see-“ Sam grins back at him, and tosses him back his knife, which Dean catches with a flourish.

                “Yeah, amazing,” says Sam quickly. “But that’s not gonna hold for more than five seconds, and-“

                “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Always ruinin’ the moment.”

The trapped incubus panics, but looks almost resigned as Dean slides the knife in. it hisses out a final breath, then goes still.

                “Is it dead?” Sam asks redundantly.

                “God knows with these things. We’ll drag it out back and torch it.”

Staring at the thing’s smouldering corpse feels a little like coming home.

-

It’s time to go, even with Scott trying to persuade them to stay a little longer.

                “Not even a week? But everyone loves you guys! And now Jack’s gone too…” He trails off wistfully. “I still can’t believe he was evil, all along. He was such a good dancer. Nice too. It’s always the ones you least expect, huh? You’d think there’d be some sort of sign he wasdn’t human – scales or something. But I saw him naked a bunch of times – not even an extra toe! He looked fantastic!” He’s taking this well enough that it’s disturbing. Perhaps he’s in shock. Either way, it’s time to leave.

                “You’ll be fine,” says Sam. “This is a great place. Guys’ll be lining up to dance here.” He feels a little guilty. Now down yet another extra dancer, Scott’s club certainly isn’t going to have an _improved_ reputation. It’s possible that Scott has the smarts to get back on track – and with a bit of luck, hopefully that’ll happen. But as much as Sam wishes he and Dean could stay and help, they have a job to do, and that job doesn’t involve resurrecting possibly-failing strip joints.

Dean does seem sad to be leaving. Despite finding out that (in his own words) ‘the hottest dancer here wanted to suck out my insides, and not in a good way’, he was really in his element in this place. Sam knows he’s itching to go though, Dean’s always had trouble staying in one place for two long no matter how much he enjoys it. It’s just his nature, even though Sam suspects he’d like to settle down one day. He can’t – neither of them can – until they finish their job, whenever that day comes. With any luck, they’ll still be alive and able to enjoy retirement. It’s an unrealistic thought, but it’s comforting, and he clings onto it.

With a few last hugs and claps on the back, Scott only really lets them leave after they’ve promised whole-heartedly to come back if they’re ever in the area. It’s an honest promise, easily made. And then they’re gone, and the world is quiet again except for the rumbling of the Impala’s engine, muted sound of Metallica, and Dean’s fingers drumming on the wheel.

                “Y’know, if we’d stayed a little, we probably coulda earned enough money to take that trip to Disneyworld you keep going on about.”

                Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean sounds fond and a little sad. “You wanted to stay?” he says instead of biting back. It actually wouldn’t surprise him.

                “Nah, not really.” It’s probably a lie, but that doesn’t matter.

                “Then what’s wrong?”

                “Just, you know. Another hunt, another monster dead, nothing really to show for it. I know it’s our job, but sometimes I kinda wish we’d get a trophy or somethin’. ‘World’s Greatest Hunters’.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we have nothing to show for it,” says Sam, reaching down to rummage through the bag at his feet.

                “Yeah, yeah, kudos, personal satisfaction, whatever. So we ganked an incubus. Not before it felt me up though, so this won’t be a story we’ll be sharing, just so you know…” Dean trails off, finally noticing what Sam’s holding.

It’s the cowboy boots and lasso.

                “Ok, you’re right.” He steps on the gas, sending them speeding down the empty road leaving clouds of dust in their wake. “I guess it was worth it after all.”

 

~The End~

 

 


End file.
